


Whipped Wings

by icedcafelatte



Series: Rhyss [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Alternate Universe - Wings, Captivity, Caretaking, Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Injury Recovery, Original Character(s), Restraints, Whipping, Whump, Wingfic, Wings, wing whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-05
Updated: 2019-01-05
Packaged: 2019-10-04 21:45:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17312402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/icedcafelatte/pseuds/icedcafelatte
Summary: This time, Rhyss can feel the hatred the man has for what he is in every blow. They’re no longer calculated but random and brutal. Thwack, thwack, thwack, across his burning back, his fragile wings...





	Whipped Wings

**Author's Note:**

> My first full story with my winged character, Rhyss. More info about him on my [tumblr](https://thoughtsonhurtandcomfort.tumblr.com/post/181510593425/background-my-winged-whumpee-rhyss-is-the-same)
> 
> (Side note: his wings are bat-like, no feathers)

“You’ll be safe here,” she promises. “Just don’t let the neighbor see you. He...he hates your kind. There are stories…” She paused, glancing out the window as if the neighbor might hear her. “Well. Just don’t let him see you.”

 

“Okay,” Rhyss says quietly. He’s lying on his stomach, eyes closed, while Maria tends to the holes which nails had driven into the delicate skin of his wings. Three punctures in each wing, right up near the bone. Her touch is gentle and her words are kind, but he’s still shaken from waking up to find himself captive, still afraid that rescue is too good to be true.

 

*

 

After a couple weeks of care, Rhyss is beginning to feel like himself again. He’s been fed, clothed, has a warm bed and his wounds are tended to regularly. He’s even started to open up to Maria and the other humans who come by.

 

He gets so content that he forgets her warning.

 

It’s a beautiful day. Warm but not hot, blue skies, only a gentle breeze. He decides it’s a perfect day to test his wings a little, to see if they’re strong enough yet for him to fly home.

 

He stands barefoot in the grass and gives them a test flap. They’re a little stiff from going so long without use, but the punctures have healed nicely, and they don’t hurt when he moves them.

 

Rhyss takes a breath and then takes off. He just goes up a little at first, then carefully lands. Good. That was good. On the second try he flies up a little higher. On the third even higher.

 

On the fourth he goes so high that he can see the whole neighborhood, homes and lawns and beyond them rolling hills.  _ Home _ is out there.

 

When he lands he’s panting a little from the effort but feels satisfied. He doesn’t hear footsteps approach in the soft grass. He doesn’t notice anything, until suddenly an arm is wrapping around his shoulders and a hand is pressing a foul-smelling cloth to his mouth.

 

The world goes black.

 

*

 

When Rhyss wakes he’s so dizzy for a moment that he thinks he might throw up. He breathes through his nose until the feeling passes. Then he shivers, because there’s a chill in the air that wasn’t there before.

 

He opens his eyes, expecting to see grass and sunlight. Instead he sees stone. He tries to move his arms to prop himself up when he realizes - he can’t.

 

He’s on his knees on a hard floor, bent forward at an angle. His arms are held taut out in front of him, heavy metal cuffs around the wrist,  _ chained _ to the wall. The chains are so short that he can’t even sit up more, let alone stand.

 

The position strains his arms and back uncomfortably. It doesn’t help that his muscles are tense from his constant shivering. He’s cold, he realizes, not just because this  _ room _ is cold, but because nearly all his clothes have been removed.

 

_ Where am I? _

 

Cautiously, he tries to turn to see over his shoulder. The movement results in two sudden stabbing sensations and he yelps.  _ His wings. How could he forget about his wings? _

 

Afraid of what he’ll find, but  _ needing _ to know, he looks.

 

His wings are spread out to either side of him. Near the end of each one is a thin metal hook, connected to chains which are then connected to either wall, keeping them spread wide open. Vulnerable.

 

Rhyss shivers harder, now with fear on top of cold. His mind reels back to those awful hours spent pinned to the wall at the auction house, the torment that still gives him nightmares.

 

His lip quivers. It really was too good to be true, to think he could recover in safety, to think that no one else would want to hurt him…

 

“So you’re awake,” comes a stern voice from behind him. Rhyss looks back, eyes panicked, to see a middle-aged human in a suit standing in the doorway. He doesn’t look at him like a rare creature the way the humans who auctioned him had. He looks at him like a pest. Like a bug to be crushed under his boot.

 

“ _ He hates your kind. There are stories… _ ”

 

“W-what do you want?” Rhyss asks breathily. He’s never been so scared in his whole life. Back home he was brave. He flew higher and faster than any of his friends, did whatever they dared him. Now he’s completely at this man’s mercy. And he’s  _ scared _ .

 

“Shut up,” the man snaps, stepping closer. “I didn’t say you could speak. Look ahead.”

 

Rhyss is quick to obey, hoping that maybe it will spare him. His breath quickens. He stares at the floor, hoping with all his heart that Maria and her friends will come looking for him.

 

Behind him there are footsteps and rustles as the man moves around. Rhyss is afraid to look, but equally afraid that he has no idea what the man will - 

 

**_Crack!_ **

 

The noise hits his ears barely a second before pain blooms in his back. Rhyss jerks in his restraints and makes a choked out cry of pain and surprise.

 

He doesn’t have time to think, to  _ breathe _ , before there’s another sharp crack, then another, another, another, as something is brought down on the bare skin of his back over and over again. Rhyss  _ screams _ , it echoes through the room, he tries to curl in on himself even though the chains holding his arms in place make it impossible.

 

The lashes only continue, relentless, while Rhyss jolts and shouts at every stinging, burning strike. It’s not long before his whole back feels hot with pain, before he stops feeling each individual mark and they all blur together into one. There’s no blood, just pulsing, fiery agony.

 

And then, somehow, it gets worse.

 

The man stops, just for a moment. He’s frighteningly silent; the only sounds in the room are Rhyss’s panting sobs and the rattle of the chains as he trembles.

 

And then the whip strikes again, only now - now its cruel bite finds the fragile skin of his wing and Rhyss throws his head forward and  _ wails _ , the sound tearing out from his throat with such force that it hurts. His sobs come harder, his trembling increases, and behind him, the man  _ laughs _ .

 

“That’s more like it,” he says.

 

And then he delivers a series of strikes, alternating between the wings, making them jerk involuntarily and pull against the hooks holding them, tearing in deeper.

 

The blows are practiced, targeted, never hitting in the exact same place twice, lighting up the tender skin with stinging pain all over, and it  _ just - keeps - coming _ \- and Rhyss is panting so fast he begins to hyperventilate, shaking so hard his muscles cramp, hot tears pouring down his cheeks,  _ it hurts, it’s too much - _

 

_ Make it stop, make it STOP - _

 

“STOP - P-PLEASE,  _ STOP _ !” he shrieks.

 

The beating stops.

 

Rhyss pants heavily, hitched hiccuping breaths as his lungs struggle to pull in air. His back aches, his wings twitch with pain. No skin is broken, just covered all over with angry red welts that burn like nothing he’s ever felt before.

 

Pangs of tension ripple through his shoulders and back. The strained position he’s in has gone from uncomfortable and unbearable. He can no longer hold himself up on his knees, and slowly, weakly, his stiff legs slide back behind him so that he’s sprawled facing downwards, legs and stomach touching the cold stone floor, chest and head and arms still held off the ground by his arms and wings chained up to the walls.

 

The seconds tick by cruelly. The man hasn’t moved, he’s just...watching him. Watching him suffer. Rhyss’s labored breath comes out in soft, high pants - “ _ ahh - hahh - aaahh - “ _ \- and he’s shaking and stiff and too cold and too hot all at the same time and on top of it all he’s  _ so, so afraid _ .

 

The man’s voice, cold and hard, cuts through the air. “ _ You _ don’t get to tell  _ me _ what to do, demon.”

 

This time when the whip comes down it’s twice as hard, meeting Rhyss’s already abused skin with a vicious  _ thwack! _ Rhyss screams again; it comes out strangled, his throat raw.

 

This time, Rhyss can  _ feel the hatred _ the man has for what he is in every blow. They’re no longer calculated but random and brutal.  _ Thwack, thwack, thwack _ , across his burning back, his fragile wings, and now, now Rhyss has left more of himself vulnerable, and blows find the soft skin at the backs of his thighs and calves, the soles of his feet. He twitches and jerks in his restraints, too overwhelmed to do anything more, his cries dying down to choked gasps as he succumbs to the seemingly unending barrage of  _ pain _ .

 

And then it finally,  _ finally _ ends. Rhyss goes slack in his restraints, shaking all over, his breathing labored.

 

When the hook is torn from his right wing he can only whimper. The man walks around and does the same to the other. Rhyss’s trembling wings sink to the ground.

 

There’s the click of a key and his wrists are released from the cuffs. He falls heavily forward onto his forearms. He hides his tearstained face in his hands.

 

“Get up,” the man bites out harshly. “Don’t make me tell you twice.”

 

The words reach him through the fog of pain and he struggles to push himself up, fearing more than anything what will happen if he doesn’t.

 

Somehow, shaky and weakened as he is, he manages to prop himself up on his arms, then his knees. When his feet touch the floor he whimpers again from the rub of stone against the welts on the bottom of them, but he doesn’t fall over, just barely. He stands, wobbling, dizzy, bracing himself with one hand against the wall to remain upright. His wings hang heavily from his aching back.

 

The man walks to a door Rhyss hadn’t even noticed and opens it. Sunlight pours into the dimly lit room.

 

“I’m going to give you _one_ _chance_.” The man emphasizes the last words, motioning out the open door. “If you can fly over the fence to that traitorous woman’s house where I know she’s keeping you, you’re free. If you can’t...well, I don’t know about you, but I think I’m up for another round.”

 

Rhyss’s eyes widen at the cruel invitation. Freedom dangled tantalizingly in front of him, but he - he doesn’t know if he  _ can _ . If his battered wings will lift him, if he has the energy left to carry himself that far.

 

But when he thinks about the alternative -  _ another round _ \- remaining here and having his skin torn to shreds in a cold, dark room where no one can hear his screams…

 

He finds some small remaining reservoir of strength and takes one shaky step forward, then another. It feels like he’s in a daze, moving on auto pilot.  _ Left, right, left, right _ . He flinches away from the man when he passes him, steps out through the doorway into the daylight.

 

It’s still the same perfect day outside. He’s probably been missing less than an hour. It feels surreal, that the hell he went through could happen in so short a time, on so beautiful a day. That the world outside went on as normal, oblivious to his suffering.

 

The fence isn’t far, but it’s high. Deliberately so, he realizes, if Maria harbors his kind in her home, trying to keep them hidden from this horrible man. Rather than protect him now, though, it’s the last thing standing between him and freedom.

 

Rhyss lifts his wings, the injured skin roaring with fresh pain as he spreads them out wide.

 

Mustering every last bit of strength he has left, he flaps once, twice. His toes lift from the grass. Every beat of his wings hurts but that little sensation of his feet leaving the ground spurs him onward. He lifts himself upward, forward, body hanging limp while his wings strain to keep him suspended.

 

He sways in the air and for one terrible moment he thinks his wings are going to give in and he’s going to fall back down into the man’s yard. But he stubbornly continues, up, forward, up, forward, until he clears the fence and can see the beautiful rose bushes that Maria keeps along the side of the house.

 

His heart swells with relief. And then all at once he weakens, his wings barely able to keep him up any longer. He manages to steer himself to the open back patio door, feet touching down onto cool tiled ground inside, and then he lets go.

 

*

 

Maria is anxiously pacing through the house, waiting for a call back from  _ any _ of her contacts whether they’ve seen or heard from Rhyss.

 

It’s possible he recovered enough to return home, but...well, she likes to think he liked her and her colleagues enough to at least spare them a goodbye, maybe even a thank you. She doesn’t think he would just  _ leave _ without a word. No, more than likely someone found where he was and...and she hates to think what might come after that.

 

She’s about to pick up the phone and harass one of the shelters she works with for the third time when a shadow appears in the doorway leading out back. She turns, eyes wide, as a familiar figure drifts in on slowly beating wings.

 

Rhyss lands on his feet for just a moment, swaying uncertainly, eyes glazed over in a way she hasn’t seen since she unpinned him from the auction house wall weeks ago.

 

And then Rhyss crumples and falls.

 

“Shit!”

 

Maria is at his side in an instant, gently lowering him down into her lap, an arm around his shoulders and a hand at his neck to feel for a pulse. It’s weak, but it’s there.

 

Her hand briefly settles on his back and she and Rhyss flinch in unison - her at how heated the skin of his back feels, and Rhyss from pain at even the lightest contact.

 

Maria shifts him as carefully as she can to examine him, and what she finds fills her with boiling rage. Rhyss’s back is a blur of raised, reddened welts, hot and throbbing to the touch. His legs and worse yet, his wings, have gotten a similar treatment, streaked with painful-looking marks. There are indents from cuffs around his wrists and a small tears in the skin at the end of each wing.

 

The man in her arms makes a pained little sound that goes right to her heart. She glances down to find him blinking blearily up at her. Somehow he is still awake. She wishes he wasn’t.

 

“M-mm...safe?” he whispers, dark lashes fluttering.

 

“Yes,” Maria responds immediately. She gathers him close, gently as she can, and lets him rest his head in the crook of her neck. She strokes his hair, the only place she feels she can touch without hurting him. “You’re safe now. I’ve got you.”

 

She whispers this over and over, _ “you’re safe,” “I’ve got you,” “it’s going to be okay, _ ” until Rhyss’s trembles subside, his tense muscles relax, and he drifts off to sleep in her arms.

 

*

  
  
  


The first thing Rhyss feels is  _ heavy _ , like his bones are made of lead. He can’t move, even though nothing is stopping him.

 

_ But it was _ , his groggy mind thinks. Something was stopping him, chains, hooks, but he can’t piece together what any of it means…

 

He jolts awake with a choked gasp, eyes wide. He’s face down, like before, but now on something soft. He doesn’t understand where he is, what’s happening, he struggles against imaginary restraints that are no longer there.

 

Moving is a mistake. Hot, stinging pain flares up all over, the worst of it in his back and in the skin of his wings. He hears the echo of  _ crack, crack, crack!  _ In the back of his mind. Nothing is hitting him, but his body jerks involuntarily with the sensation of the vicious blows, like he can still feel them.

 

“Rhyss!”

 

A voice - familiar - reaches his ears. It’s not the cold, hateful voice that he now forever associates with pain and fear, it’s someone else, and that alone calms him just enough that he stops struggling.

 

A gentle hand settles on the back of his neck. Not holding him down, just...grounding him. A thumb strokes over his skin.

 

“Rhyss,” the voice says again. “It’s okay. You’re safe now.”

 

_ Maria? _

 

He turns his head just a little. The movement makes fear build in his chest again, like he’ll be punished just for looking.

 

But the man isn’t standing behind him, and the room isn’t a cold, dark dungeon. Maria is there, her eyes sad as she watches him, and the room is the bedroom with light blue walls and soft beige carpet where he’s been staying with her.

 

All at once the tension eases out of Rhyss’s body and he settles, exhausted. His head is on a soft pillow. His wings are spread out to either side but rather than held out by sharp hooks, they’re laid gently across armchairs. His body is on a bed, and Maria sits at the edge of it, still stroking the back of his neck.

 

His whole body aches. He remembers why now. His eyes squeeze shut and a tear slips out; Maria brushes it away.

 

“I’m going to make it better,” she promises, “but you have to trust me. I’m going to clean your skin, and then I’ll put something on it to help the pain. It might sting a bit, but then it will feel better. Is that okay?”

 

Rhyss takes a slow breath and nods. At this point it doesn’t matter. He’s at her mercy just as he was at the neighbor’s. But, he supposes, unlike that man, Maria is actually merciful.

 

“Thank you,” she says, as if it’s him doing her a kindness and not the other way around.

 

At the first touch of something damp to his back, Rhyss flinches. It stings, just like she said it would. Her other hand finds his and slips into it. “Here,” she offers, and he squeezes it weakly.

 

Maria cleans him all over, including his wings, which can’t seem to stop trembling. Rhyss breathes in and out through his nose, fingers tightening and loosening around her hand as some touches hurt more than others. The overall pain has dulled, at least, to just a steady thrum rather than a raging fire.

 

“There,” she says. “That was the worst part. You did so well.” She frees her hand from his and gives his hair a stroke. He struggles to believe how humans like her can exist in the same world as the man who did this to him.

 

She picks something up from the bedside table. A white container. She shows him the label but his eyes can’t focus to read it.

 

“I’m going to put this on now,” she tells him. “And anytime you need some, just ask.”

 

She opens it, scoops something onto her fingers, and places them gently where the lashes begin, just above his shoulder blades. It’s cold; Rhyss shivers. Maria lets the touch linger, waiting for him to adjust, before she begins to smooth the gel over the damaged skin.

 

The balm leaves a cooling tingle behind in its wake, easing the burning pain left by the welts. Rhyss lets himself relax into the rhythm, soothing circles made by gentle fingers over his skin. The more skin is covered, the more he relaxes. A sigh of relief falls from his slack mouth.

 

“Does that feel good?” Maria asks with a smile.

 

“Mm-hmm...”

 

She applies the gel to his whole back, the backs of his legs, the soles of his feet, so, so carefully to the tender skin of his wings, even the cuff marks around his wrists, every injured part of him soothed with cool, gentle touch. The pain eases, his shaky breathing evens out, his wings even stop trembling. It feels heavenly, to feel something good when he thought he might never again.

 

His eyes are closed. He hears Maria put away the balm and dry her hands and for a moment he thinks she’s going to leave. He wants to thank her, but he feels so heavy and tired, his mind already beginning to slip back into the comfort of sleep.

 

The last thing he remembers before he drifts off: a blanket draped over him, just up to his waist. The curtains drawn to block out the light. The bed dipping just a little. Fingers stroking through his hair and a soft voice telling him,

 

“ _ Everything is going to be okay. _ ”

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr](https://thoughtsonhurtandcomfort.tumblr.com)


End file.
